


Charitable Causes

by Thymesis



Series: Star Wars Rare Pairs Collection (NC-17) [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Humor, Idiots in Love, Light BDSM, M/M, Pining, Rare Pairing, Sex Toys, pre-TPM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-27 12:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10021718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/pseuds/Thymesis
Summary: Jedi Master Dooku is on the fast track to a seat on the Jedi High Council. What could possibly go wrong?Or: Qui-Gon Jinn invites his former Master to a charity auction.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluedragoninamber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedragoninamber/gifts).



> There needs to be more Dooku/Qui-Gon slash. Grey proposed the particular scenario upon which this story is based, and I chose the pairing—I hope you don’t mind my rather liberal interpretation of “a night on the town”…!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon intercepts his former Master and gets him to agree to something he may not yet fully understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Explicit rating reflects the content of future chapters. We’ll get to the sex soon—I promise!

Dooku strides through the sunlit cathedral halls of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.

His movements are purposeful but unhurried; his internal chrono is, as always, impeccable. In precisely fifteen minutes, he is due for an appearance before the Jedi High Council to report on the trade of legal spice in the Corellian system. It will be his first debriefing since attaining the rank of Jedi Master, and he knows that a seat on the Council itself is destined to be his before too long.

Knighted at seventeen. Promoted to Mastery before the age of thirty. He might even become the youngest being ever appointed to the Council in the whole of the millennia-long history of the Order, and wouldn’t that be fitting recognition for one with a career as exceptional as Dooku’s? Provided he does a reasonable job over the course of the coming year and keeps his head down, well, he has already been given certain, shall he say… _assurances_.

As he approaches the repulsorlift that will deliver him to the Council Chamber at the top of the Temple’s central tower, Dooku plans the wording of his report: _Increased transparency has been beneficial to trade overall, and local planetary governments as well as industry stakeholders are supportive of the reforms. Unfortunately, spotty enforcement of shipping quotas at specific chokepoints has resulted in—_

“Master!” A voice calling out to him from behind interrupts his thoughts.

Dooku turns around, one eyebrow raised questioningly. His former Padawan learner, now Knight, Qui-Gon Jinn jogs up to join him at the repulsorlift doors.

It has been a little over six months since Dooku saw Qui-Gon last, and he marvels at how much Qui-Gon has grown since his Padawan braid was cut. Qui-Gon is tall, now—tall enough, in fact, to look Dooku straight in the eye—and he is broader, more heavyset and muscular than he has ever been before. Yet in his disheveled appearance, robes wrinkled and askew, locks of hair falling rakishly over his forehead, Qui-Gon is much the same as always.

“How many times must I remind you of the importance of upholding the dignity of the Order through word, deed, _and_ sartorial self-presentation?” Dooku asks as he reaches out to yank on Qui-Gon’s tunics and tabards, tightening and straightening them into something vaguely approaching neatness. The words themselves might seem like criticism, but they are delivered with a patience and tolerance that only a handful of beings would believe Dooku capable.

“At least once more, Master,” Qui-Gon replies, his standard rejoinder to the decade-old argument. Equally lighthearted, even affectionate.

Dooku snorts and casts a sideways glance at the repulsorlift. It seems to have stalled some one-hundred and fifty floors above. He still has nearly twelve minutes, though; there is no hurry. “And what may I do for you today, Qui-Gon?” he asks.

“Well, Master…” Qui-Gon begins. Then he pauses and looks down at his feet for a moment, as if embarrassed. How odd. “I-I was wondering…”

“ _Yes?_ ” Dooku folds his arms with a hint of impatience. He has no taste for prevarication.  

“I was wondering if you would accompany me to an IIF charity auction tomorrow,” Qui-Gon says in a rush.

“A charity auction?” Dooku echoes, almost stupidly.

“That’s right,” Qui-Gon says, eager to clarify his position, his face shining. “All proceeds from the auction are going to the IIF—the Intergalactic Indigenes Fund.”

“I know what the IIF is,” Dooku replies. “Really, Qui-Gon, I had hoped that you would have outgrown this harebrained preoccupation with pathetic lifeforms…”

Qui-Gon huffs with exaggerated outrage at Dooku’s casual dismissal of his many pet causes. “Over eighty percent of indigenous species in the known galaxy are critically endangered. And you wouldn’t _believe_ the ecological damage that intensive bantha farming has done to over three hundred vulnerable worlds in the Mid-Rim alone—”

Dooku tunes out Qui-Gon’s rant with the ease of many years’ worth of practice. The repulsorlift is on the descent again. His thoughts return to his report: _Increased transparency has been beneficial to trade overall, and local planetary governments as well as industry stakeholders are supportive—_

“Master? Are you listening?” Qui-Gon again.

Dooku sighs. He had been planning to have the day off tomorrow. So much for the best-laid plans of men and Jedi Masters. “Yes, yes, very well,” he says to Qui-Gon. “I will accompany you to this charity auction tomorrow. Follow up with a comm to my quarters covering any additional details.”

The repulsorlift doors open. Dooku favors the surprised and delighted Qui-Gon with a distracted bow. _Unfortunately, spotty enforcement of shipping quotas at specific chokepoints has resulted in—_

“Oh, thank you very, very much, Master!” Qui-Gon enthuses as Dooku steps into the repulsorlift and the doors begin to whisper shut. “It’ll be so much fun; I promise you won’t regret your decision!”

It is only after his business with the Council is concluded—most satisfactorily, he might add—that it occurs to Dooku to wonder why Qui-Gon is so keen to attend this charity auction.

After all, a Jedi has no possessions—and no credits with which to purchase them.

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s something strange about this charity auction. And where _has_ Qui-Gon got himself to, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo-kay, starting here, this story veers sharply in a rather kinky direction. Hold onto your hats, everybody—it’s going to be an, ahem, _interesting_ ride!

The Spire is glittery, ostentatious, and enormously popular with tourists. Normally, Dooku would avoid the place like the plague.

There is no avoiding it tonight, however, and Dooku is very glad indeed that he eschewed his usual robes in favor of a basic black shirt, cape, and leggings. He blends in with the vulgar masses better.

Qui-Gon guides them both unerringly past bustling restaurants and noisy casinos, through the milling shoppers and snaking theater queues, and onward to their destination.

“We’re here,” he declares at last.

A sign displaying “IIF Closed Event” would seem to confirm it, and the charity auction venue in question appears to be one of the Spire’s more grandiose ballrooms.

“I’m a volunteer,” Qui-Gon says to an usher in a smart red and gold uniform posted at the entrance.

“Very good, sir,” the usher replies. “Please report to Myron.” The usher indicates a cordoned off area with a casual wave of one hand.

“Thank you,” Qui-Gon says to the usher. “Would you see to my friend here? He is a guest.”

“Of course.” The usher nods.

“Now, hold on—” Dooku begins, confused.

“I’ll see you later, Master, okay? Don’t worry. Relax and enjoy yourself!” And with that final exhortation, Qui-Gon disappears around a corner.

“May I see your credit chip, please?” the usher says to Dooku.

“Eh? Oh, right.” Dooku hands over a credit chip. How fortunate that he had the foresight to open an incidental expenses account for the two of them this evening. While naturally he has no intention of bidding on—never mind _purchasing_ —anything, Dooku knew well enough to assume that they would need proof of funds even to be allowed into the auction in the first place. It is the way of such things.

“Very good, sir.” The usher returns to the credit chip. “And do you agree to submit to a routine medscan?”

“Wait, why—”

“Just the usual precautions, sir. Requirement for all guests. We have to keep everything aboveboard and legal, you know.” The usher shrugs.

Dooku is baffled, but he doesn’t show it. “Yes, fine,” he agrees. It’s not like he’s in anything less than perfect health, anyway.

Needless to say, the usher’s handheld medscanner doesn’t tell Dooku anything he doesn’t already know.

“The auction should be commencing momentarily. Please head directly to your seat. L12. That’s row L, seat number twelve.” The usher hands Dooku a flimsiplast card and waves him through the entrance.

A simple podium stage has been erected on one end of the ballroom, and rows of seats have been laid out to face it. L12 is on the middle aisle and only two rows from the very back. Virtually all of the other seats have already been filled, and while Dooku can sense Qui-Gon’s presence, he cannot pick him out among the sea of beings in the audience.

Dooku surveys the crowd. They are, he understands immediately, the upper echelons of the Coruscanti elite—financiers and inherited wealth, mostly, with a few A-list HoloNet celebrities and professional athletes thrown in for variety’s sake. There is not single IIF activist or wroshyr tree hugger type anywhere in evidence.

In truth, they are more Dooku’s type of people than Qui-Gon’s. Dooku was born to nobility on Serenno, after all. Is this why Qui-Gon was so eager to have him in attendance? And where _has_ Qui-Gon got himself to, anyway?

Ah well. It seems that, for the moment, Dooku has been left to his own devices. Idly, he glances at the flimsiplast card the usher had given him. His seat row and number are printed in large, bold type on one side. On the other, there is a list of “Auction House Rules”:

 

All sales are final.

All purchase-related activities will be agreed in advance.

All purchase-related activities will be conducted in designated premises.

Use limitation codes will be respected at all times.

 

Suddenly, Dooku has a very bad feeling about this…

The lights flicker, and the audience’s attention turns to the front of the room. An energetic Zabrak male wearing a traditional auctioneer’s cloak steps onto the podium.

“Good evening, good evening, my gracious gentlebeings! I’m your host Myron, and welcome to the Intergalactic Indigenes Fund Charity Auction! If you got lost on your way to the sabacc tables, the exits are there and there.” He points and pauses dramatically. “Everybody in the right place, then? Excellent, excellent. Now, I know you’re all dying to save the nexu kittens and the wild a’moryhn flowers,” he says with a bark of conspiratorial, huckster laughter, “so let’s get started right away with items for bid.”

Myron gestures grandly, and an ordinary looking, middle-aged human woman wearing a simple white robe steps onto the podium. She does not appear to be holding anything, but maybe the first item for bid is small—a piece of jewelry, perhaps?

“Lot 1, Human female, age 47, use limitation codes C through E. Bidding starts at 110,000 credits,” he announces.

The woman on the podium removes her robe. Underneath, she is completely naked.

Dooku is consciously aware of his jaw clenching. _No, surely this isn’t—?!_

“Aww, c’mon, gentlebeings, where’s the enthusiasm? She might not want you hitting her too hard, but _I’d_ tumble this hot mama any day of the week, wouldn’t you?” Myron declares.

_It is._

The bidding commences.

It is a truism that a Jedi owns only himself and his lightsaber, and it is only at this very moment that Dooku realizes Qui-Gon has decided to put himself up for auction.

At a _sex slave_ auction.

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon on the charity auction block.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Dooku. ;-)

Dooku is so terribly stunned, disbelieving, that the next several “items” for bid are auctioned off without his conscious awareness. He is, however, brought back to the Spire’s ballroom with a jolt when the first non-human sentient is brought out onto the podium.

It is a Chagrian female. Sweat is pouring down her forehead in brackish, gray rivulets, and her mouth is twisted into a rictus of a grin that Dooku recognizes as the Chagrian expression of fear.

“Lot 7, Chagrian female, age 15, use limitation code A only. Bidding starts at 125,000 credits,” Myron announces.

Trembling, the Chagrian removes her robe. There is a low buzz of appreciation from the audience. She seems to wilt beneath the scrutiny. Dooku grimaces. While she is—barely—of age by Chagrian standards, she still looks like a youngling. And although true slavery has been illegal in the Republic for hundreds of years, there will always be bad actors. He wonders if the Chagrian’s participation in the auction has somehow been coerced.

As her going price doubles, and then trebles, Dooku reaches into the Force, extending his senses in the direction of the podium, expecting to feel the nauseating quaver of a sentient being’s abject terror.

What he feels is not terror. It’s not even anxiety. It is…excitement. The Chagrian is sexually aroused. Dooku realizes, appalled beyond measure, that she is enjoying being at the center of this humiliating spectacle.

The sweat and the grin and the trembling are all just a performance. But it is one that the crowd is devouring with equal excitement. Submerged within the currents of the Force as he is, Dooku can also feel the various emotional states of the individuals in the audience, and a significant proportion of them are actually taking sadistic pleasure in her apparent humiliation.

“Isn’t she a pretty little thing?” Myron asks. “And she won’t mind one bit if you want to rough her up, gentlebeings. You know they say Chagrians never scar!” He chuckles and leers suggestively at the audience.

 _Disgusting_ , Dooku thinks, _repulsive_. Protecting the galaxy’s critically endangered indigenes is just convenient cover for these sexually deviant plutocrats to indulge their most prurient interests. Were it up to Dooku, these beings would all be “invited” to a mindhealer for therapeutic reprogramming. And by the Seven Heavens, Qui-Gon must be out of his skull too…

Eventually, the Chagrian is “sold” for an eye-watering sum that is several multiples more than the average Coruscanti’s annual income, and the next being steps onto the auction block.

Dooku sits up straighter. It’s Qui-Gon.

“Lot 8, Human male, age 20, use limitation code…”

Myron pauses dramatically.

“ _None_! Bidding starts at 199,000 credits.”

Qui-Gon hasn’t even removed his robe yet, and the audience is already going wild, the bidding so fast and furious that Myron has to keep pleading with them to slow down. In less than a minute, Qui-Gon’s going price equals, then exceeds, that of the Chagrian female.

He _is_ out of his skull, Dooku decides. He’s going to let whichever pervert with the most credits do whatever they want to him. Has he no shame?!

Perhaps not. Qui-Gon just stands there, shoulders relaxed and feet slightly apart, expression as placid and depthless as one of Serenno’s volcanic lakes. He is unfazed by this public display of his nakedness, and he doesn’t seem at all interested either in the commotion he has caused or whatever is to be the outcome.

Eventually, the bidding for “Lot 8” settles into a three way competition between a middle-aged Human male, a banker, Dooku decides, on the basis of his soberly professional but expensive clothing; two giggling, blue-skinned Twi’lek females who appear to be sharing a single seat; and a Non-Human being of unknown species that is mostly oily black tentacles.

“I have 550,000 from C3,” Myron says. C3 is the Tentacles. “Do I have any bids for 560,000?”

The Banker shakes his head subtly—he’s out, then—while the Twi’lek Twins whisper to each other. They nod in unison.

Dooku tries to imagine Qui-Gon in-between these simpering Twins, having to suffer their erotic attentions. A three-way orgy? Dooku is actually physically repulsed by the thought.

“I have 560,000. 570,000?” Myron asks.

Silently, Tentacles holds up his—hers? its?—card. There are both suckers and spikes on the underside. What _has_ Qui-Gon got himself into?!?!

“I have—” Myron acknowledges a counter-bid from the Twi’lek Twins, “oh-ho, I have 580,000. That’s a new all-time record, gentlebeings; Lot 8 is a prize indeed! 590,000?”

Again, Tentacles holds up its card.

“600,000?”

This time, the Twi’lek Twins decline to bid.

Qui-Gon is going to be ravished by a mass of black tentacles for his idiotic charitable cause. What sort of damage will those suckers and spikes do?! Not just to his flesh but to his insides…! Dooku scrutinizes Qui-Gon, both with his natural vision and with the Force, and he senses hardly anything; Qui-Gon is supremely unconcerned.

“I have 590,000 for Lot 8. Take a long, hard look at this prize specimen, gentlebeings. He could be yours, all yours, to do with exactly as you please, for the low, low price of 600,000. Do I have any bids?”

The audience has gone totally silent. No action. Qui-Gon’s eyes are half-closed; he appears downright bored by the proceedings.

Myron sighs, seemingly wistful. “I have 590,000 for this prize specimen, going once, going twice—”

No, surely not. Surely not Qui-Gon. Not his noble, handsome former Padawan in bed with Tentacles—!!

Dooku holds his L12 card up high. “I bid…” His voice is a harsh rasp. He clears his throat, pauses, and tries again. This time, the words are strong, resonant. “I bid 700,000 credits.”

Everyone in the ballroom is looking at Dooku. Qui-Gon’s heavy-lidded expression does not change.

It is, needless to say, over very quickly after that.

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dooku confronts his new “purchase.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> X-D

The auction accountant takes Dooku’s credit chip. 700,000 Republic credits are duly deducted.

“We are delighted to inform you that your purchase of Lot 8 comes with a complimentary one night’s stay in a Spire Embassy Suite. Thank you for your generous contribution to the Intergalactic Indigenes Fund,” she recites with rote politeness and hands Dooku his credit chip and a room key.

Impeccably professional and impersonal. Of course the perverted plutocrats patronizing this farce of a charity auction would expect no less.

Qui-Gon is already in the room when Dooku arrives.

It is a luxurious space, dominated by the one of the largest beds that Dooku has ever seen, and Qui-Gon is on that bed, naked and spread-eagled, his wrists and ankles bound. Upon closer inspection of the restraints, it is clear that Qui-Gon could, if he so wished, free himself in an instant with a touch of the Force. He persists in this humiliating state by his own choice, and as such Dooku is not inclined to show mercy.

It is Qui-Gon, however, who speaks first. “I am obliged to inform you that I consent to anything,” he says. His voice is flat, emotionless, and his eyes remain fixed vacantly on the ceiling. He does not look at Dooku.

“ ‘Anything,’ you say? Anything at all?! Have you no dignity, Qui-Gon?!” Dooku asks, barely able to rein in the negative emotions roiling hotly inside of him. There is an arrangement of implements which, with a disgusted shudder, Dooku realizes are sex toys, laid out on the bed. He brushes them aside and sits down.

Qui-Gon merely turns his head, away from Dooku, and does not answer.

“I demand an answer, Qui-Gon! Are your pathetic lifeforms so precious to you that you would allow those…those _Tentacles_ to have their sordid way with you?!”

“Over eighty percent of indigenous species in the known galaxy are critically endangered—” Qui-Gon begins.

“Yes, so you’ve told me on too many occasions,” Dooku interrupts. “But, to allow a stranger to…to _use_ you—”

“For a good cause—”

“I am not that easily deceived, my former apprentice!” Dooku erupts, temper flaring out in the open at last. “You are not telling me the truth; I can feel it.” Mouth twisted with revulsion, he picks up one of the sex toys at random. It is a large—and very realistic—dildo. He dangles the dildo in front of Qui-Gon’s face, holding the base between just the tips of his thumb and forefinger like it is the limp, decaying corpse of a hawk-bat. “Is _this_ what you enjoy?! Tell me!!”

Qui-Gon stubbornly refuses to respond.

“Tell me!” Dooku insists again.

There is a button on the dildo. Dooku pushes the button, and the dildo begins to vibrate. He presses the dildo against Qui-Gon’s chest and slowly, ever so slowly, begins to trace an invisible line with it downward toward his groin.

“Well, Qui-Gon?”

Still no response. But the muscles of Qui-Gon’s abdomen are tensing. Dooku runs the dildo along Qui-Gon’s hipbone and toward the inside of his thigh. The vibrations are making his flesh jiggle.

Qui-Gon moans wordlessly and tosses his head back and forth.

Dooku presses the dildo firmly against Qui-Gon’s genitalia. Qui-Gon cries out, back arching, writhing in his restraints. His penis abruptly thickens and jerks, the unhooded, moist tip brushing against Dooku’s bare wrist.

That touch— Their minds connect. And suddenly, suddenly—

Dooku sees _himself_ , through Qui-Gon’s eyes, as he was yesterday, standing before the repulsorlift doors. He is elegant and statuesque, and he is bathed in beautiful golden sunlight. When Qui-Gon calls out to him and he turns, it’s as if Dooku’s radiance has suddenly seen fit to favor Qui-Gon with the warmth of its benediction. And then, exasperated, Dooku reaches out to fix—

He is fixing Qui-Gon’s Padawan braid. It is sloppy and uneven whenever Qui-Gon attempts to plait that long, stubborn lock of hair himself, so Master Dooku does it for him. As those graceful, tapered fingers work their deft magic, they brush against the sensitive shell of Qui-Gon’s ear, the tender flesh of his neck, his collarbone. A tingling bolt of pleasure shoots down into Qui-Gon’s belly, and it feels—

It feels good, so damn good, to curl up on the thin sleeping pallet in the private darkness of his narrow Padawan’s cell and touch himself, to pretend that it is his new Master instead who is touching him intimately. He has to clap his hand over his mouth to stifle his cries as that sweet tension releases and, for the very first time, fluid spills from his erection and he is soaring, weightless, falling—

He is falling backwards, unable to regain his feet. Qui-Gon’s opponent has used a dirty trick on him that he is too inexperienced to know how to defend against, and Qui-Gon braces himself for the sickening burn of a training saber to his midsection…which never comes. The supervising sabermaster, newly Knighted prodigy Dooku, has disarmed Qui-Gon’s opponent and caught Qui-Gon’s tiny youngling’s body before he hits the ground, saves him—

Dooku saves him today, as he always does, exactly as Qui-Gon knew he would. When the bidding becomes too fierce, he rises, an extraordinary oasis of strength and surety up from among the ordinary rabble, to claim Qui-Gon for himself. And secretly, Qui-Gon’s soul is singing with joy because maybe— _finally_ —Dooku will realize how much Qui-Gon has always wanted him—

How much Qui-Gon _loves_ him.

“I-I never knew,” Dooku whispers.

And then Qui-Gon’s wrists are free and his arms wrap around Dooku in order to pull him down, inexorably down, into their first ever kiss.

The dildo drops somewhere underneath the bed, forgotten.

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable consummation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a PWP. If such things bore you, you can assume Dooku and Qui-Gon have a fabulous night and skip it. Otherwise…enjoy!!

Nothing has ever tasted as sweet.

Qui-Gon’s mouth is evergreen honey and pokemint and shuura fruit, and Dooku sups like a starving man before a banquet. The kiss seems to go on forever. They nip at each other’s lips; their tongues spar. Dooku is drowning; it’s so intense that he nearly forgets to breathe.

With a heartfelt gasp, Dooku breaks the kiss. Qui-Gon stays laid out beneath him on the bed, panting, eyes soft with unconditional submission and dark with unfathomable desire.

“My beautiful Qui-Gon,” he says. His hands cup Qui-Gon’s face, thumbs massaging the line of that square jaw with infinite tenderness. “You should have told me long ago.”

“I told you in a thousand different ways,” Qui-Gon replies, turning his head sideways to nuzzle his nose into Dooku’s right palm. “You never listened.”

He is probably right, Dooku admits to himself ruefully. Fortunately, Qui-Gon is not the sort to hold a grudge. “I’m listening now,” Dooku assures him.

Qui-Gon merely pushes his face harder against Dooku’s palm. As he does so, an unruly lock of hair falls away, exposing the delicate whorl of one ear. Dooku remembers the Padawan braid that used to hang behind that ear and the vision Qui-Gon shared with him, and this gives him an idea.

Dooku takes that ear into his mouth. Qui-Gon jerks and wails. Encouraged, he bites down gently and sucks. Qui-Gon wails louder. Gradually, Dooku works his way down to the velvety earlobe and then continues on to Qui-Gon’s neck, raining licks and nips and kisses as he goes, following that line of neck to the jut of collarbone and the curve of shoulder.

At some point during these ministrations, Qui-Gon manages to free himself of the ankle restraints as well, and his legs tangle and wrap themselves around Dooku’s. Dooku is well and truly caught now, and Qui-Gon begins to rock beneath him, to grind his erection into Dooku’s groin. Qui-Gon is leaking profusely, and Dooku can feel it soaking into his clothing.

He is going to require a change of attire if things continue for much longer.

“If you would give me a moment to undress and freshen up before we continue…?” Dooku starts to suggest.

“NO! I’m not waiting anymore!” Qui-Gon protests.

And then, so quickly that Dooku can barely track the movement, Qui-Gon has opened the front of Dooku’s pants and taken hold of his penis. He strokes it from base to tip and back again. Dooku can’t remember the last time he’s been this hard and decides that getting undressed just isn’t that important after all.

Qui-Gon shimmies his hips, lifts his legs up higher, and guides Dooku’s erection toward his anus. Distantly, Dooku notes that the wrinkled pucker and the curls of pubic hair guarding it are wet. Did he prepare himself before he—?

“Complimentary care package for auction volunteers,” Qui-Gon says by way of explanation as he guides Dooku home.

Dooku does his best to keep the penetration slow, but Qui-Gon is far too impatient, tugging on his shoulders and digging his heels into his back, urging him to go faster. When, finally, they are fully joined, they both quiver with unfulfilled passion.

“Is this what you want?” Dooku asks, forcing himself to stillness. He has to be certain.

“Yes, oh, yes… Wanted this for so long…” Qui-Gon whispers. Tears slip down the creases at the outer edges of his eyes. It’s not from pain. He is weeping with joy.

And so, they begin.

And it is, quite simply, delightful.

Dooku sets a steady, measured rhythm to their lovemaking, and Qui-Gon instinctively matches it, warm and welcoming, meeting each thrust of Dooku’s hips with an equally powerful one of his own. They kiss and caress and moan and even laugh on occasion as their pleasure builds. Dooku takes Qui-Gon’s penis into his hand and strokes it.

“All my life, Master. All my life, I’ve loved you, and I will love you for the rest of my life,” Qui-Gon pants. Then, groaning, he throws his head back and comes.

That declaration, along with the spill of hot semen over his knuckles, is more than Dooku can stand. He brings Qui-Gon’s legs up to his shoulders and begins to thrust faster and deeper, rhythm erratic now, a savage twist at the bottom of each stroke as if he is trying to pound Qui-Gon straight through the mattress.

This change of angle has a remarkable effect. With a startled whimper, Qui-Gon comes a second time, his erection spurting untouched and painting both of their bellies with fresh fluid. Dooku hadn’t known such things were physically possible for a man.

But he has little time to marvel at his former Padawan’s unexpected sexual prowess as the captivating sight and clenching inner muscles of Qui-Gon’s orgasm triggers his own.

It’s so intense—so _wonderful_ —that he bellows and momentarily blacks out.

When Dooku does eventually come to, he quickly recognizes three truths: One, Qui-Gon is asleep in his arms and snoring—loudly. Two, Dooku never did manage to get undressed; his cape has become badly wrinkled as a consequence. And lastly…well, Qui-Gon said it best himself earlier:

_I will love you for the rest of my life._

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reckoning with the Jedi High Council.

They return to the Temple shortly before dawn. But when Dooku stops off at his private chambers, he arrives to discover that the inevitable summons has already been issued:

 _Master Dooku: Please report to Council Chambers at 0900 hours_.

He has just enough time to wash up in the ’fresher and change into a clean set of Jedi robes. It wouldn’t be appropriate for Dooku to report to the Council looking less than his usual best.

Qui-Gon, however, clearly does not feel similarly. He is as rumpled as always and bleary-eyed to boot when he rejoins Dooku, and in the close confines of the repulsorlift to Chambers, he smells so enchantingly of sleep and sex that it’s all Dooku can do simply to straighten Qui-Gon’s tunics and not tear them off entirely in wanton, lustful hunger.

Dooku and Qui-Gon present themselves to the Jedi High Council at precisely 0900 hours, standing side by side, and the Council is straightforward with its concerns.

“It has come to our attention that a charge of 700,000 Republic credits was levied against an expenses account opened in your names last night. This remarkable expenditure was not pre-approved,” Sifo-Dyas, the newest member to be seated on the Council, informs them. “We have been given to understand that this payment was made to the Intergalactic Indigenes Fund; the Temple also received a personal comm from the IIF President thanking the Jedi Order for its generous charitable contribution.”

“Come to expect such impulsive behavior of Qui-Gon, the Council has,” Grand Master and Council Head Yoda interjects. “But unexpected, this is, Dooku, for a conscientious Jedi such as yourself!” He stabs his gimer stick into the air in Dooku’s direction.

Dooku winces. He had been Yoda’s Padawan as Qui-Gon had been his, and despite the years that have passed, Yoda’s censure always cuts him deeply.

“Indeed,” Sifo-Dyas interjects. “Dooku, your recent work in the Corellian system was exemplary, and we were posed to elect you to the next vacant seat on this very Council. However, the irresponsible and unauthorized use of Temple funds has certainly given us occasion to reconsider.”

Before Dooku can formulate an appropriate response in his own defense, Qui-Gon steps forward. “It was my decision, and my decision alone, to donate credits to the IIF’s cause. I take full responsibility and accept any sanction the Council may wish to impose,” he says evenly.

“Accept full responsibility, Qui-Gon, you may not!” Yoda snaps.

Qui-Gon does not flinch. His expression is as placid as it was on the auction block last night. Dooku knows that being berated by the Council for his… _unconventional_ decisions has become routine since Qui-Gon’s Knighting, and it occurs to Dooku that this must be where Qui-Gon learned his sabacc face.

Yet, deep inside of him, in a place so skillfully sequestered that Dooku only recently learned of its existence, Qui-Gon is distressed. And so, Dooku does what he always does when it comes to Qui-Gon:

He leaps to his rescue.

“The Council ought to be ashamed of its lack of support for the IIF’s cause,” Dooku declares. “Over eighty percent of indigenous species in the known galaxy are critically endangered.” Dooku makes a sweeping gesture. “Furthermore, you wouldn’t _believe_ the ecological damage that intensive bantha farming has done to over three hundred vulnerable worlds in the Mid-Rim alone!”

Silence.

Dooku meets and holds the gaze of every single member of Council, each in turn. There is a battle of wills. In the end, it is no contest.

Yoda sighs, all the weight of his eight-hundred years behind the sound. “Very well. Contemplate the merits of this charitable cause, the Council will. Adjourn, we shall, and reconvene at 1100 hours.”

Dooku will never have a seat on the Council. To his immense surprise, he realizes he doesn’t care.

“Master…” Qui-Gon murmurs.

Dooku shakes his head, bidding him to wait, and places a reassuring hand on Qui-Gon’s shoulder. Qui-Gon leans subtly into his touch. They remain standing in the center of the Council Chamber as all of the other beings depart.

All except Sifo-Dyas.

“Good show, Dooku, good show—I’m impressed!” Sifo-Dyas guffaws. He is speaking as Dooku’s longtime friend now, not as a member of the Council. “So, tell me,” he continues, eyebrows wagging at the two of them, “did your purchase come with any use limitations?”

Dooku’s jaw is just beginning to drop as Qui-Gon responds. “Use limitation codes A, D, and E,” he lies calmly.

“Hmm!” Sifo-Dyas leers. “Not bad, not bad at all. But I wouldn’t have thought you’d be into threesomes, Dooku. How _did_ you get in, anyway? Those IIF auctions are pretty exclusive events…”

Threesomes?! Seven Heavens!! He must be assuming Qui-Gon and I shared a sex slave, Dooku thinks. We are fortunate that no one on the Council suspects the truth.

“Qui-Gon has been a loyal patron of the IIF for many years,” he says aloud instead, finding his voice again.

“Well…hmm! Good for you, then. Oh, and hey,” Sifo-Dyas’s tone lowers to a conspiratorial whisper, “next time they’re holding one, consider inviting me along too, will you? I could do with some unwinding myself!”

“Of course,” Dooku says. He is careful to keep his tone neutral.

Dooku and Qui-Gon bow politely as Sifo-Dyas saunters off.

“Master, I—” Qui-Gon begins again once they are safely by themselves.

“How many times must I remind you about your sartorial self-presentation?” Dooku interrupts, yanking Qui-Gon’s outer robe shut. Qui-Gon had gone from flaccid to full salute at some point during the Council session, and it is a minor miracle that Sifo-Dyas had not noticed or remarked upon the bulge in his pants.

“At least once more, Master,” Qui-Gon replies, his cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink.

Dooku smiles fondly. “I do believe I would like to learn more about your favorite charitable causes, Qui-Gon. Perhaps we should take this discussion to private quarters. Would you prefer yours or mine?”

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus began Dooku’s and Qui-Gon’s long, distinguished careers as gadflies to the Council! :-D
> 
> (But before that, presumably, more fun times in the bedroom…!)

**Author's Note:**

> For posterity’s sake, the following is Grey’s original prompt and inspiration for this story:
>
>> The prompt is your typical cliché and one of my favorites. The wilder member of the couple coaxes their other half out for a night on the town, clubbing or something, drinking, dancing, making out and generally raising very uncivilized, inappropriate hell. No arrests please though. Needless to say, they sleep together. 
>> 
>> But here's the second part, and this is another favorite thing of mine. They get called on the carpet/chewed out/in big trouble with the Jedi Council when they are found out. The tamer member of the couple has never been in trouble like this before, but they're in love and lust enough with their partner that they haul off and tell the Council exactly where they can shove their objections. The Council is so stunned that they don't do anything further, and the wilder member makes sure they know just how hot it made them watching their prim and proper partners tell off the Council.


End file.
